


To Find Somebody

by ladydirewolf1



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Boy Scouts, Camping, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-13
Updated: 2015-11-07
Packaged: 2018-04-14 10:31:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4561170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladydirewolf1/pseuds/ladydirewolf1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens when a young John Watson meets another boy just as alone and confused as himself? Two boys forced together on a camping trip discover each other--and themselves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Washed Away

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [All I Want](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/136296) by Kodaline. 



> Just a quick note: I put both of their ages at 14 for this story.

                “Come on lads, we don’t have all day!” Mr. Cook folded his arms and gave the boys his signature scowl. “Buddy up so we can start this damn trip! And remember, you’re stuck with them for the entire week!”

                John looked down at his boots and studied the cracked mud reaching up from the soles. _Why did Mum have to send me on another scouts trip?_ he thought, scrunching his fingers into a fist. _She knows I hate them, and even my bloody sister would rather be going._ They were all the same, these week-long camping trips. Cold nights, colder showers, and a whole lot of fourteen year-old boys screaming and yelling and fighting with sticks.

                There was a gentle tap on his shoulder. John turned to find a tall, lanky boy staring back at him. He had just a few dark curls peaking out from beneath a woolen hat pulled low over his forehead. A tiny skull-and-crossbones was stitched just above the ear.

                “There’s no on else,” the boy said, tugging at the hem of his coat.

                John stared back, frowning. “Sorry?”

                “There’s no ono else. Well, except for me and you. All the other boys have paired up.” The boy pointed over John’s shoulder at the line of boys heading out down the path. Sure enough, two-by-two they walked, cheering and whooping and stomping like the entire forest was just for them. “By my accounts I’m the only option you’re likely to have.”

                “I don’t even know your name,” John said, settling his eyes back on the boy before him. _Like the sea_ , he noted, glancing at his eyes. _Like the sea was left out for too long in the sun and now the color’s all washed away._

                “I’m new.” he said, shoving both hands deep inside his pockets. “My brother was a scout, though. They all said I’d love it here just like Mycroft.”

                “They said the same to me,” John replied, giving the boy a faint smile. “I wouldn’t hold out too much hope.” The boy nodded like he already knew. When his head bent down the white embroidery flashed into view. “What’s that for?” John asked, pointing.

                A grin spread on his long face as he tugged off the hat, dark curls spilling out in the process. “My mum’s not much for sewing, but I asked her to make an exception for my birthday once.” The boy gestured for John to take it. The wool was soft, and obviously well-loved through the years. “I wanted to be a pirate,” he explained, leaning forward to trace the small skull.

                When John examined the hat he noticed an old spot rippling across the back, like the fabric had been burnt. “What happened here?”

                “Oh,” he started, shifting his feet. “That was Mycroft. He tried to throw it away a few months ago. He said pirates don’t exist, and that I’d be better off studying chemistry or something.”

                “Well,” John said, flipping the hat back over to look at the skull. “I think you’d make a great pirate.” John stretched open the elastic and stood up on his tiptoes to lower the cap back over the dark curls, tucking them neatly inside. When he was done John looked away, suddenly embarrassed at the heat rising to his cheeks. “Erm, we should get back to the group,” John started, clearing his throat. “They’re probably far down the path now.”

                The boy nodded and shoved his hands back in his pockets. The rest of the boys were a faint dot in the distance, but their heavy footprints were easy enough to follow down the slick path. Only watery light streaked through the dense trees, flitting through in greys and burnt oranges and sad reds. _Even the sun doesn’t want to be here._

                As they walked, John felt the boy’s presence beside him and listened to the soft rustling of his coat. For some reason he found himself matching the boy’s stride. “I’m John,” he said quietly, not lifting his eyes from their splattered boots.

                “Sherlock,” the dark-haired boy replied. “You have a nice name.”

                John smirked at that. “And you have a funny one.”


	2. Neon

           By the time they reached the group night had fallen, and now the boys’ ghoulish shadows leapt and played against the damp earth, fighting and whirling and laughing with sticks in their hands and grins on their lips. John looked at their game, unsure if he should join in. The boy he had met, Sherlock, stood on the outskirts of the clearing too, with a tree-sword gripped tight in his hand and a smile on his face as he swung and leapt all by himself. Sherlock didn’t seem to care about playing by himself, not like John did.

            “What a freak.”

            John jumped at the words, whipping around to see a boy beside him. He was about John’s height, with cropped dark hair and even darker eyes. A stick was still clutched in his hand. “What? Oh, right. I guess so.” John swallowed as his eyes followed the boy’s to the blissfully ignorant Sherlock.

            “’Course he his, everyone thinks so.” The boy grinned. “I’m Jim, by the way.”

            “John.”

            “Do you know the freak?”

            John shook his head. “Not really, we just met. But we’re erm…buddies for the rest of the week.” He noticed the boy’s frown and quickly added: “Not that I wanted to. Gods, it’ll be awful.” He didn’t like the way the boy looked at him.

            Jim nodded in approval. “Let me know if he’s bothering you, right? I’ll take care of it.” With a suggestive swoosh of the branch and a wink the boy ran back to the brawl, sword in hand and a cheer on his lips. John closed his fist.

            John stayed by the trees until the group finally tired of their silly game, but walked reluctantly over at Mr. Cook’s rather loud call.

            “Gather ‘round lads! Mr. Cook crossed his arms till the chattering quieted down, a scowl plastered on his hard face. “’Bout time. We’ve got your bags over there,” he gestured to the climbing pile of greens and browns and blacks, “and your tents over here,” he pointed to the black bags leaning against a picnic bench. “You’ll be sharing with your partner, and I’ll not be hearing no whining about it, you hear? I want them up with you inside within the hour!”

            The boys rushed forward, shoving and pushing each other out of the way to grab the best tent. When they finally cleared away, John approached the bench.

            “There are none left,” Sherlock said quietly, approaching from the left.

            He was right, only dust and scraps of paper littered the ground. John hesitated, glancing up at Sherlock before turning to walk towards their scouts leader. Mr. Cook sat at one of the tables flipping through some clipboard. “Mr. Cook?”

            The man looked up with a huff. “What is it, Watson?”

            John looked at his feet, then back up. “All the tents, sir…they’re none left.”

            Mr. Cook frowned and stared at him for what seemed like ages. Finally, after spitting at the ground, he gave a gruff reply: “Go check the truck, there might be an extra.”

            John nodded, giving Sherlock a hopeful smile as he passed by on the way to the truck. He grasped the peeling white metal in his hands and peered down into the pickup’s bed. _Well this is bloody great._ He hauled the bag over his shoulder and plopped it down by Sherlock’s feet.

            “No one will ignore us in a bloody _orange_ tent,” John said bitterly, giving Sherlock a look.

            The boy blinked, once, twice, and frowned at the bag. “It’s not orange, it’s _neon_ ,” he said, looking up with a smile.

            John smiled back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed, and please let me know what you thought of Jim, I'm a bit worried he's OOC even for teenlock, so any feedback would be much appreciated. Thanks!


	3. Something Else

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I finally got back into writing this story thanks to some lovely reviews by Whispering_Rain. Enjoy@

             John and Sherlock stepped back to admire their handiwork in the fading light. Oddly enough, John thought the brilliant orange looked rather nice against all the earth and the leaves. Like it was special, and John Watson wasn’t used to special.

            “The other boys seem to be struggling,” said Sherlock. John followed his gaze. Several of the boys had the tents tied around their necks like capes, and two were chasing each other with metal rods. _A rather unfortunate step up from wooden sticks_.

            “Should we help them?” John asked, turning to Sherlock.

            “Not particularly.” Sherlock’s lip twitched at the corner, and he stepped up to the tent, unzipping the plastic door. John was just about to follow him inside when he noticed one of the boys simply standing amidst all the shadowed chaos, staring at the orange tent. John looked back at their tent and smiled. _I suppose the Scout’s take all kinds_.

            Inside Sherlock sat cross-legged on a deep purple sleeping bag. The strange glow from the tent hinted at shadows on the boys face that swept beneath his high cheekbones and curled into his dark hair.

            “I laid yours out too.”

            John blinked, startled. “Sorry?” He knew that Sherlock probably hadn’t noticed his staring, but the heat rose to his cheeks anyway.

            “Your sleeping bag. I took it out of your bag for you.”

            “Oh, right. Sorry.” John glanced at his own plain, grey bag. “Thanks, mate.” The tent was so small that the bags laid side by side, just inched apart.

            Sherlock nodded. “We should go to sleep soon. My brother said the group always gets a surprise trip to the waterfall the first morning.” The dark-haired boy began removing his boots and socks, then started to reach for his jumper.

            “Don’t you want me to—” John blurted out. Sherlock looked at him expectantly, his pale fingers still clutching the jumper’s hem. “—turn around…or something?”

            Sherlock gazed at him curiously. “Yes, all right. I’ll only take a minute.”

            John released a breath he hadn’t know he’d sucked in and shifted to face the tent wall. For a minute, only the gentle rustling of fabric could be heard. John wondered what kind of pajamas a boy like Sherlock Holmes wore. Probably silk sets, judging by the names _Sherlock_ and _Mycroft_. Only posh people named their children that.

            “I’m finished…I can do the same for you now.”

            John turned and couldn’t help but be disappointed. Sherlock was already tucked inside his bag and facing the wall. After a pause, John started rummaging through his bag. He pulled out a ratty T-shirt and faded flannel pants. _Of course mum forgot to pack winter pajamas. Of course._

Once he was dressed, John settled inside his bag. “I’m all done, Sherlock.” The other boy shifted so that they faced each other. Almost nose to nose, actually. Well…if you discounted the inched of frigid air between them.

            “I wanted to thank you, John, for pairing up with me today.”

            John’s mouth twitched in surprise. “Well…it was you or that other weirdo.” Only the sounds of lonely insects and obnoxious boys echoed round their small tent. John frowned, worried he’d said something wrong, and searched desperately in the darkness for Sherlock’s expression. “Wait, no, I didn’t mean—” Sherlock sighed, and John fell silent. He waited. Then, amidst the stillness and the quiet, he heard a small laugh which grew and grew until both boys (John couldn’t help himself) were laughing freely in their neon tent.

            “Sherlock!” John breathed out once their laughter started to die out, a hand on his ribs. A grin remained plastered on his face. “What the bloody hell is your problem?!”

            “Calling me a ‘weirdo’ is most likely one of the kindest terms I’ve heard in a long while.”

            He let his last laugh escape into the cold air. “Well, it’s true.” John imagined Sherlock’s smile matching his, facing his, in the darkness. The silence returned, but it was the good kind now. The kind that night and stars were supposed to bring.

            “We really ought to go to sleep.”

            “Goodnight, you weirdo.”

            “Goodnight, John.”

            The two boys settled into their sleeping bags. John shut his eyes and smiled at the neon ceiling that blocked the out the sky. At least tonight was supposed to be cloudy.

* * *

 

            “John!” A sharp whisper and a firm hand on his shoulder jolted him awake.

            “Wh-what?” John said tiredly. He thought that Sherlock had fallen fast asleep hours ago. The hand at his shoulder released. When John cracked his eyes open, he made out Sherlock’s dark form kneeling over him.

            “You’re shivering.”

            “My mum…” John started in a quiet voice, “she forgot to pack me the warm pajamas, that’s all. I’ll be fine.” John watched as Sherlock disappeared into his side of the tent and began rummaging through his things. “What are you—”

            “Here. Take my coat.” Sherlock moved back over and began spreading out a long, dark thing over John’s thin sleeping bag.

            “What? No, Sherlock. It’s yours—”

            “We can’t have you bloody freeze to death! Now let me finish then go to sleep.” John fell silent and remained still as Sherlock tucked the coat around his shoulders. His warm fingers brushed against John’s neck as he smoothed the thick fabric up to his chin. “There,” Sherlock declared, crawling back to his own bag and slipping inside. “Now _sleep_ , John.”

            John nodded and listened for the rustling to die down. Tentatively, he brought his fingers to the coat and tugged it closer, almost to his nose. He breathed in. The coat smelled like mint and pine and…and something else. Something that could only belong to a boy who wanted to be a pirate, to a boy who brought a purple sleeping bag to a camping trip, to a boy who played with sticks all by himself beside the campfire. Something that could only belong to Sherlock Holmes. John carefully pulled the coat towards him and tucked the wool beneath his cheek. He knew that Sherlock couldn’t see him in the dark, but he tried to hide it anyway. He just knew that boys his age weren’t supposed to do things like that. Especially things with another boy’s coat.

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

            It was daybreak when they heard the screams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and please let me know what you thought!

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first teenlock fic, so please tell me what you thought! I love to hear any and all feedback, it really is the reason writers continue to work on and update stories. Thanks and I hope you enjoyed!


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